


Delectable

by fuchsiaring



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Swears and Crowley Digs It, Blow Jobs, Demons Can Sense Lust, Established Relationship, First Time, Frottage, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 23:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20348899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchsiaring/pseuds/fuchsiaring
Summary: Just as Crowley is nodding to himself, resolute in his plan, there’s a shiver in the air, like the way summer heat rolling off the pavement ripples with the swelter of it.  Crowley can feel it in his chest, in his veins, thrumming in his bones.  He knows this feeling, has felt it a fair few times in his centuries.Lust.--Crowley senses lust from Aziraphale's flat above the bookshop.  What's there to do besides follow the feeling?





	Delectable

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd I'm posting this at 5:00am

It’s dark when the Bentley rolls to a stop outside Aziraphale’s bookshop and Crowley cuts the engine. Silence descends upon the street, and the stifling humidity of a summer night pours in when Crowley opens the door and climbs out, a full bottle of whiskey in one hand. He’s finally managed to get his hands on a bottle of a particular single-malt he’d tried decades ago, the one that had immediately brought thoughts of Aziraphale to mind. Ever since, he’d wanted to see the look on Aziraphale’s face when the smooth burn washes over his tongue.

Recently, Crowley has taken to the particular way whiskey tastes on Aziraphale’s lips, the bouquet of it mingling with the summer-sun scent of Aziraphale’s skin, blending in with the cloying of his most recent cologne purchase and the mild smudge of book-binding glue. They’ve been together for millenia, but they’ve only been _together_ for something like six months. It’s still new, still thrilling with how unfamiliar it is. Crowley can’t get enough.

Which is how he has ended up in front of Aziraphale’s shop unexpected in the middle of the night without so much as a phone call. He’d been so eager to share a drink that he’d come straight over with bottle in hand, prepared to finally crack the seal open and fulfill that long-lived fantasy of sipping at the taste, not from a glass, but from an angelic kiss.

He knocks at the door, but there’s no answer. When he tries the handle, it’s unlocked because he expects it to be.

“Angel, it’s me!” Crowley calls as he steps through into the shop. “I’ve got a Glenfarclas you’ve got to try.” The door closes and locks behind him with no more than a thought, but there’s no answer from the depths of the shop. It’s dark inside, the lights shut off for the night, nearly pitch black through Crowley’s sunglasses. Even the crack under the door to the back room is lacking the usual slant of lamplight.

It’s a bit strange to see the shop abandoned. Crowley has rarely seen it without Aziraphale’s cream-coloured presence among the shelves, at the desk, at the little table, lounging back in his desk chair with a glass in hand. It’s smothering with how quiet it is. Briefly, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has gone out, perhaps to dinner--anywhere, really. Just because they’ve been nigh inseparable the last few months doesn’t mean he hasn’t got… celestial business somewhere. 

In the middle of the night. Without Crowley. 

There’s a pang of envy that Crowley bridles as quickly as he can, although it’s a bit of a struggle. Demons and Sin go hand in hand, but he’s hardly going to let it poison what he and Aziraphale have built together. There’s an explanation, surely, and Crowley will ask tomorrow. He’ll head home for the night and call ahead next time, let Aziraphale know he’s coming. He’ll say he dropped by, only to find the shop empty, and Aziraphale will tell him he’d… gone out for sake and… fancy sushi, or something, hadn’t thought Crowley would have been interested, he apologizes, my dear. Crowley will say of course he would have been interested--perhaps he doesn’t care for sushi, but he cares for Aziraphale, and would have jumped at the chance to spend an evening out with him. Aziraphale will smile his soft smile, take Crowley’s hand, and light up like the sun. He’ll say he’s delighted, maybe he’ll lean in for a tender kiss--the only sort they’ve had so far.

Just as Crowley is nodding to himself, resolute in his plan, there’s a shiver in the air, like the way summer heat rolling off the pavement ripples with the swelter of it. Crowley can feel it in his chest, in his veins, thrumming in his bones. He knows this feeling, has felt it a fair few times in his centuries.

Lust.

It’s delicious, and it’s too close to be the neighbors, too strong to be an idle thought. It’s lust someone is ready to act upon, lust that is currently in the _process_ of being acted upon, even. It tugs at him, draws him in, begs him to answer the call. Crowley has felt lust, of course he has: it has come from humans, he’s had it _for_ humans, it has come toward him, toward others; there are so many configurations of the give-and-take of desire. But never, never has he felt this desperate _longing_ that overtakes him in this moment. It burns in him, in his skin, in his blood.

It’s too easy to follow the trail of it, forgetting the whiskey still clutched in his hand. It guides him through the stacks and shelves of books, into the back of the shop where an inconspicuous flight of stairs leads up to the little flat on the second floor. Crowley has been up to Aziraphale’s “living quarters” very few times, for very few reasons. The bookshop proper is more Aziraphale’s home than the flat is, and the upstairs of the building is more reserved for storage than anything, as far as Crowley is aware. But as he drifts up the stairs and through a dark, hardly-used kitchen, he comes to the slow realization that he might be mistaken.

A dim light cuts through the darkness, barely more than a soft glow that spills from the narrowest of cracks between a door and its frame. The lust floats through the room along with the light, and as Crowley’s ears strain in the silence, a quiet sound comes with it.

A moan. Hardly more than a huff of breath, barely audible, but it strikes through Crowley’s chest. He prowls after the sound, approaching the cracked door with his heart pounding in his ribs. Slowly, hesitantly, with apprehension, he leans in and peeks through the crack.

There’s not terribly much to see of the bedroom, besides that it is, in fact, a bedroom. All Crowley can see is an unsurprising but immense number of bookshelves packed full with books Aziraphale can’t stomach letting customers touch, a wardrobe that’s surely stuffed with sentimental coats and hideous amounts of tartan, and the very foot of a bed adorned with a tartan (of course) duvet. The blankets are shoved down, crumpled and folded against the footboard.

Another quiet groan cuts through the dark, and a single pale foot slips into view, pushing the covers even farther down, toes flexing as that little moan falters into a gasp, and then a low hum.

“Oh,” and that’s Aziraphale’s voice, undeniably. Quiet though it is, Crowley knows that voice, knows the way it goes a bit lower with a pleasure that’s reserved for a particularly delicious meal. Though he knows the voice, he has never heard it rumble like this, gravelly with a barely contained groan of… Well, _lust_.

With a shaking hand, Crowley reaches out and nudges the door just a bit further open. Even as he does it, he knows he probably shouldn’t. They haven’t explicitly spoken about the boundaries of their relationship, but the way Aziraphale has always drawn back when Crowley’s hands start to wander has established a voiceless line that is _definitely_ crossed by “peeking in on one’s lover in the middle of the night when they are clearly expecting privacy.” But the desire in the air is so blessedly… tempting, and the call of it is still dragging Crowley closer, tugging at something with no name that’s heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Through the widening crack of the door, Crowley can see more of the room--more of Aziraphale. He’s leaning back into a plush nest of pillows, one leg bent up at the knee, the other stretching down to slide across the sheets. His hands drift over his own body, stroking along the smooth skin of the insides of his thighs.

He’s made an _Effort_, and it’s clearly very interested in the proceedings. A frankly exquisite cock is hard between those plush thighs, awaiting any attention it might receive. As Crowley watches, Aziraphale reaches out and grabs a bottle off the night table, tips a bit of lube into one palm, and closes his fingers around himself. The bottle falls, forgotten, onto the mattress, and Aziraphale’s unoccupied hand buries itself in the pillows behind his head. His strokes start slow, languorous, sliding down the full length of him before dragging back up. A twist of his wrist brings another gasp to his lips.

“Oh,” he breathes, “_Crowley_.” 

Crowley’s heart nearly stops.

“Ngk.” The sound is out before he can shush himself, and he immediately claps a hand over his own mouth. It’s too late. Aziraphale’s head whips around, eyes wide as he sees Crowley lurking through the gap in the door, the dim light of the bedside lamp casting dark shadows.

“Crowley!” This time, his name in Aziraphale’s mouth isn’t nearly enraptured. Rather, it’s horrified, and Aziraphale bolts upright to snatch his covers up over himself. “Wh-what are you doing here?” The rumble in his words is gone now, his voice high and strained as he holds his blankets up to his chest.

“Ah, wh--uh, I--b…” Crowley stammers for words, his mouth not quite managing to wrap around anything meaningful. “I brought… drink.” As if it’s any sort of explanation, he holds up the bottle of whiskey for Aziraphale to appraise from all the way across the room.

A silence lapses between them for what feels like a century.

“Right,” Aziraphale finally says. “Er, well, i-if you—” He doesn’t get to finish speaking before Crowley interrupts.

“You said my name.” At Crowley’s words, Aziraphale’s already pink cheeks go a truly incredible shade of red. It reaches all the way up to the tips of his ears, and he looks away.

“I, er… W-well, that… that’s—” Again, Crowley cuts him off.

“I felt lust,” he says, “and y… you were thinking of me?” Aziraphale’s gaze jerks back up to stare across at Crowley.

“You… _felt_ lust? You can _feel_ lust?” 

“‘Course I can,” Crowley says with a snort of laughter that he doesn’t really feel for how hard his heart is hammering in his chest. “I’m a demon. ‘Course I can feel _lust_. One of the Big Seven, you know.” A beat passes between them, and Crowley feels like he has to fill it. “You can feel love, can’t you?”

“Yes, but… Well, I didn’t expect… I was… trying not to let on, as it were.” It sends Crowley’s thoughts into a tailspin.

“Trying not to…?” Is _that_ why Aziraphale always pulls away just when Crowley is finding his stride, always leans back when Crowley’s hands start toward that fussy little bowtie that would look so fucking good tugged loose round his neck? Is he keeping his distance because he didn’t want Crowley to know he was… lustful? To know he  _ wanted _ ? “Why?”

“I… I’m not--I didn’t want to… go too fast. It’s been… Well, that is, I—” Suddenly, Aziraphale heaves out a huff and reaches up to rub his hands over his face, hiding his face in his palms. The blankets drop down into his lap, and Crowley tries _desperately_ not to let his gaze flicker down his bare chest. “Oh, Crowley, I love you so terribly much, I didn’t want to… ruin it.” A shaky huff of disbelieving laughter is bursting from Crowley’s chest before he can catch it.

“Angel, there is absolutely _nothing_ in the _world_ you could do to ruin it.” After a hesitation, Aziraphale’s hands part, and he looks up at Crowley with a question in his eyes. “And if there _was_, which there’s not, it’s never going to be going to fast. I’ve wanted you for _millennia_. There’s almost nothing you could want that I haven’t already thought of--nothing I don’t want, too.”

This time, the silence that falls is more gentle. Hopeful, almost.

“Do you really mean that?” Aziraphale asks, and his voice is so, so soft. Crowley nearly doesn’t hear him.

“‘Course I do,” he replies. “Would I lie to you?” A smile, one of the shy ones Crowley loves so much, turns the corners of Aziraphale’s lips.

“No, I don’t believe you would.”

Silence, again, but comfortable now. Crowley can’t feel love the way angels, the way Aziraphale can, but he feels it in his own chest.

“Then, i-if you… Would you… like to… join me?” The words stumble out of Aziraphale’s mouth, and his fingers worry at the blankets again. His cheeks flush anew. Crowley is overtaken by fondness, and he gives a little smile.

“I really would.”

So he steps over the threshold into the bedroom, pushes the door closed behind himself--all the way, until it clicks this time. The bottle of whiskey thumps down onto the bedside table, and Crowley sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, still fully dressed--save for his shoes, which he kicks off without a second thought. He tugs off his socks before he turns to Aziraphale, looking into pale blue eyes that are filled with a bashful sort of anticipation.

There’s that longing again, that yearning that calls Crowley in like gravity. He leans into it, leans into Aziraphale, one hand coming up to rest against a soft cheek and guide their lips together. It’s the same sort of kiss they always share, something tender and familiar that lets Crowley’s eyes fall closed behind the sunglasses he’s still wearing. After a moment, Aziraphale draws back, only a few inches, and carefully lifts the glasses off. He folds them, lays them on the nightstand beside the whiskey, and reaches out to cradle Crowley’s face between his hands.

They kiss soft and slow, lips sliding together with a tender kind of intimacy. Gradually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, it grows deeper. Aziraphale’s lips part beneath Crowley’s tongue, his mouth hot when Crowley licks in, sipping on the sweet taste of desire. As they mingle together, blurring the lines that keep them seperate, Crowley begins to feel that delicious lust rising from Aziraphale’s skin. It comes from deep within him, rising out and wrapping around Crowley to swathe him in the heat of it.

“I think,” Aziraphale whispers as he breaks their kiss, “you are wearing far too many clothes, my dear.” Crowley cracks a smile, but before he can lift a hand to snap his fingers and will his clothes away, Aziraphale has grabbed his wrist. “Would you mind too terribly to do it the slow way? At least this time?”

“Sure,” Crowley murmurs, and he leans back to let Aziraphale undo the knot of his tie, lets him drop it to the floor, lets warm hands run over his chest above his shirt. He’s stricken with a sudden urge, a silent murmuring in his ear, the metaphorical devil on his shoulder purring directions in the tone of the lust that still sings through the air.

Desire is a fickle thing. Sometimes it’s vague: distant, misty, and hardly audible. Other times, it surges forth like a tidal wave, deafeningly loud with what it wants, ready to swallow up anything and everything, as long as it finds an outlet. Aziraphale’s lust is somewhere in between. It doesn’t consume Crowley, doesn’t rip the air from the room with desperate need, but it’s clear. Crowley hears it, and he knows what Aziraphale desires.

“Ah,” Crowley says, and he presses one more kiss to Aziraphale’s lips before he stands. He doesn’t go anywhere, just stands in the soft lamplight and reaches for the hem of his own shirt. Piece by piece, he strips his own clothes away, tossing them to the floor with a carelessness he knows becomes him. His shirt first, then his belt just for show. By the time he’s undoing the button and zipper of his trousers, he can feel Aziraphale’s want starting to settle into his own body. While he’s wriggling out of his skin-tight jeans, baring more skin inch-by-inch, Aziraphale is watching with rapture in his eyes. He absentmindedly licks his lips when Crowley shoves his underwear off over his hips, baring his burgeoning erection to the dim light, and climbs back into the bed.

The lust in the room is starting to grow heady, starting to make Crowley want--truly want. He’s feeling the pressure now, feeling the steam in his blood make his skin hot to the touch, and he prowls up over Aziraphale on hands and knees. With a firm kiss, he presses Aziraphale back down into his nest of pillows, straddles his lap over the covers, and shoves long fingers into the soft curls of his hair. It pulls that tiny moan from Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley can’t help but give one in return.

Through the blankets that still separate them, Crowley can feel the hardness of Aziraphale’s cock against his own thigh. It’s delightful, knowing he’s got Aziraphale worked up like this--apparently has had Aziraphale worked up like this before without ever knowing it. How Aziraphale has managed to hide a lust like this, Crowley can’t quite be sure. Aziraphale is weak to resist indulgence, but he has greater self control than Crowley had realized.

With their lips locked together, their breath mingling and tongues taking turns in one another’s mouths, Crowley can feel his own desire overtaking the call of Aziraphale’s. Maybe Aziraphale had unintentionally instigated, but Crowley is strapped in and ready for the ride, has been for centuries. All it takes is a tiny sigh parting Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley takes to lavishing kisses along the length of Aziraphale’s neck. His skin is soft and smooth beneath Crowley’s tongue, and lips find their way to one ear to suck slow kisses just beneath.

“Oh!” Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, that’s… lovely.” Crowley huffs out a fond little laugh.

“Just you wait, angel,” he murmurs into Aziraphale’s ear. A burst of lust rocks through the room, brings a soft hum to Crowley’s lips. It guides him, leads him to close his teeth on Aziraphale’s earlobe, encourages him to speak when he lets go. “It’s going to get a lot more lovely than this.”

Crowley spreads kisses along Aziraphale’s neck, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. His tongue finds one nipple, lingering there as he spreads his hands down the plush width of Aziraphale’s waist. As soft hands stroke across bony shoulders, Crowley pushes the blankets down between them, giving him more room to work as he continues forging a path of kisses down the heavenly body beneath him. When he reaches the soft curve of Aziraphale’s belly just beneath his navel and smooths his hands up the insides of solid thighs, fingers find their way into his hair. He cuts his gaze up at Aziraphale, only to find him looking back, lower lip between his teeth.

“Alright?” Crowley murmurs, and mirrors the smile that breaks out across Aziraphale’s face.

“Well more than alright, my dear,” he replies, and cards a soft touch through Crowley’s hair. It sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine, and he ducks his head to press a kiss to the crease of one plump thigh. He’s so close to where Aziraphale clearly wants him (if the way gentle fingers are starting to grip his hair is any indication), and he isn’t sure which one of them the desire is coming from anymore. He can smell Aziraphale’s arousal from this close--would have earlier, had he been less focused on the way their lips were matched together. He parts his lips, darts his tongue out against Aziraphale’s skin to taste the air, taste  _ him _ . A gasp sounds from above him, and Crowley buries a smile into Aziraphale’s soft thigh. It’s all too easy to open his mouth and scrape his teeth against the tender skin beneath his lips, and his smile only grows wider when Aziraphale’s legs press apart to let him suck a red mark to the surface. Tiny little hums rise from Aziraphale’s throat as Crowley kisses and bites his way over the thighs that frame his shoulders just perfectly. Finally, Crowley concedes to the gentle tugging on his hair.

He looks up at Aziraphale as he tips his head and drags a closed-mouth kiss along the length of his cock. A ragged little “ah!” surges from Aziraphale’s throat, and his fingers clench in Crowley’s hair. It’s firm, but it doesn’t hurt, and Crowley lets a quiet groan come from his own chest before he parts his lips and spreads a slow lick up the underside of Aziraphale’s shaft. With such things on his mind, Crowley has forgotten to bother keeping his tongue in one piece, and the split of it fits perfectly around the head of Aziraphale’s cock when he wraps his lips around and slides down slow.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. “Oh,  _ Crowley _ .”

It sends a thrill through Crowley’s blood, and his own neglected erection gives a throb of interest that coils deep in his belly. He wonders if this is what Aziraphale had been thinking about when he’d been interrupted, and Crowley decides that if it is, he’s going to give him a blessed good reason to think about it in the future. He hollows his cheeks, spreads long hands over solid hips, and takes Aziraphale to the back of his throat. A moan rumbles out from Aziraphale’s chest, and one leg wraps itself around Crowley’s back. As he bobs his head steady and slow, Crowley relishes in the hot and heavy weight of Aziraphale on his tongue.

He’s wanted Aziraphale for ages, of course--nearly longer than he can remember--but now that he’s had a taste, Crowley wants even more. Flitting fantasies of long nights cuddled together beneath sheets that smell of both of them have suddenly become attainable, and Crowley never wants to let it go. He swirls his forked tongue around the head of Aziraphale’s cock as he sucks, and one hand wanders away from angelic hips to reach down between his own legs, wrap around his own length.

“Wait, darling.” Aziraphale’s voice is ragged, full of remnants of the moans he’s been panting into the dim light of the room. “Please, let me.” The fingers in Crowley’s hair are guiding him back now, gently pulling him off and leading him up the bed. Crowley doesn’t fight Aziraphale, letting himself be tenderly pushed and pulled into position. He finds himself straddling Aziraphale’s lap again, settling his weight down against those deliciously plush thighs until their erections slide against one another. It drags a gasp from both of them, and Crowley leans forward to press a hungry kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. As he devours Aziraphale’s breaths, Crowley hardly notices Aziraphale reaching for the bottle of lube until a slick hand is wrapped around them both. He moans, long and low and deep, and pulls away from the kiss to drop his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It’s just a bit of frottage, nothing he hasn’t done before, but it’s somehow so much sweeter when it’s Aziraphale’s hand wrapped around them both. The hand that isn’t setting a steady rhythm between them brushes up the length of Crowley’s back, stroking slow lines all along his spine, traipsing over the ripples of his ribs beneath the skin. Crowley arches into the touch and lays his hands on Aziraphale’s chest.

Crowley has always been skinny, more sinew and bone than anything else. He’s never minded; he likes the way clothes lay on him, likes the way his narrow frame takes to dresses just as well as it does to suits, but  _ Heaven _ does he love the solid presence of Aziraphale beneath him. Aziraphale is plush everywhere Crowley is hard, and it feels so blessedly good to have that soft waist between his thighs. He gives a roll of his hips, rocking up into the rhythm Aziraphale has set with his strokes. They moan in tandem, and Crowley turns his head to press a kiss against the side of Aziraphale’s neck. He  _ wants _ , more than he’s wanted in a long time, and he presses more firmly into Aziraphale’s touch. It’s, dare he say, Heavenly, and when Aziraphale’s grip twists around them both, it hauls a deep moan from Crowley’s chest.

His voice comes out louder now, and he reaches up to bury his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, clutching him close as they tip their foreheads against one another’s shoulders. The hardness of Aziraphale’s cock against his own, the slide of Aziraphale’s fingers around them, the way his grip tightens at the base and slicks faster at the head--it has Crowley drifting toward the edge, and he reaches down to let his own hand join Aziraphale’s. Their fingers wind together, and that’s even better.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, tipping his head back to put a bit of space between them. He’s breathless, beginning to pant into the space between them. His breath his hot against Crowley’s neck, and it’s absolutely delectable.

“Hmm?” Crowley mumbles, tightening his grip around them both as he feels the pleasure starting to rise in him.

“Look at me, please. I want to see you.”

Even though it takes a significant amount of effort, Crowley drags himself upright and looks down at Aziraphale, meets his eyes and finds absolute, undeniable love filling that blue gaze. Aziraphale’s eyes are half-lidded, a flush is blooming on his cheeks and down his throat, spreading across his chest in the most enticing way. The hand Aziraphale doesn’t have wrapped around them comes up to stroke Crowley’s cheek, and it’s so blessedly tender that it aches in Crowley’s chest.

“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, “so lovely.” A shaky laugh makes its way from Crowley’s chest, and he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. He can feel the heat of sweat prickling at the back of his neck, can feel the swell starting within him.

“You… You ssspoil me, angel,” he hisses, and his free hand grips Aziraphale’s shoulder as he uses the other to guide Aziraphale into a faster rhythm.

“You deserve it, my dear. You’re so terribly good to me.”

“Sh-shut up.” His jaw starts to clench, his breath comes ragged, and it’s only inches, centimeters away.

“That’s it, love,” Aziraphale’s voice is a beacon, a guide showing Crowley the way to his pleasure, leading him to the peak. “Come on.  _ Fuck _ , you’re beautiful.”

That’s all it takes. Crowley cries out as he comes, fingers clenching down on Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes pressed shut as it surges through him, pulse after pulse of liquid pleasure rushing through his veins. He’s still gasping for breath, head tipped back and lips parted, when Aziraphale releases him, fingers wrapping around his own cock to work himself to completion. It’s only seconds, and Aziraphale smears sloppy kisses along the underside of Crowley’s jaw as he tips over the edge. When he comes, it streaks hot across Crowley’s lower belly, but he couldn’t give less of a damn if he tried.

Crowley drapes trembling arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holds him close as they both quiet, as their heartbeats slow and they get their breath back. Aziraphale strokes slow touches up and down Crowley’s back, presses soft kisses to his shoulder. 

“That was…” Aziraphale finally murmurs, but he trails off, his voice still muffled into Crowley’s neck.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, eyes heavy and body weak as he leans into Aziraphale’s arms. “It was.” Eventually, he works up the nerve to shift away, slumping down into Aziraphale’s pillows with an absent snap of his fingers to clean the both of them up.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs, and rolls to the side to drape an arm around Crowley’s waist. Crowley leans into the warm touch, curling up against Aziraphale’s chest and melting into the warmth of his embrace. “Did you still want to have that drink?”

“In a bit,” Crowley says, tipping his head to lean his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Let me,” he gives a flop of his hand, a vague gesture that doesn’t actually mean anything at all, but Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Of course, my dear.”

As the taste of desire fades from the room, Crowley thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can feel the shimmer of love filling the air between them.

**Author's Note:**

> For y'all. You know who you are.
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr @fuchsiaring!


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